


bone-tired

by gayprophets



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The First Avenger, Character Study, M/M, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 05:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10757562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayprophets/pseuds/gayprophets
Summary: There’s different kinds of tired. Bucky knows this.





	bone-tired

There’s different kinds of tired. Bucky knows this.

There’s tired of Steve comin’ home with a busted face and fractured bones in his hand, that one feels like worry bubbling behind his teeth and phantom aches in his own fingers, the buzzing in his head that _you_ _didn’t protect Steve this time_ and _next time you don’t get to him in time_ and _there might not be a next time_.

Tired during one of Steve’s illnesses, that’s days of sleeping maybe an hour a night, watchful eyes raw and red, ears attuned to the slightest catch of a breath, afraid it might be his last. Fourteen hour factory days (and that’s another tired within itself, fingers and arms alternating between burning and numb rapidly, face burnt from sparks and the smell of smoke, feet _rosered_ _violentpurple_ _deadblack_ , and not even making it to the bed and just passing out on the floor.) spent with his shoulders rigid and panic holding his chest tight like a lover, because when he gets home Steve’ll probably be cold on the floor with blue lips and Bucky might’ve been able to stop it.

Post illness is a boneless sigh, a blast of air from sore lungs and hands raised in a brilliant hallelujah. Post illness is throwing themselves into the same bed and sleeping through Sunday, skipping church because God’s never helped when Steve’s on death's door, only medicine and thick blankets and a hawk-like eye. Their legs are tangled and bruises bloom like purple roses and magenta tulips on the backs of Bucky’s thighs and calves from Steve’s sharp heels and knobby knees, Steve's nose pressed into his chest or between his shoulderblades a better comfort than warm milk, ragged breaths more soothing than a lullabye. This tired means that they’re too wiped out to be scared of what happens if someone walks in on them like this, makes Bucky too fractured to care about what Steve might think, or to pull away to make sure Steve doesn't realize that Bucky likes him as more than just his best pal.

Sleepy is after spending time with a dame, the exhaustion that comes after putting up a front for hours on end. This one is a milky kind of tired, cloudy and tasting of cough syrup. This one comes with heavy limbs and quiet sadness, and an edginess that fades slightly when Steve laughs at him (“ _Boy, those dames’ve really putcha through the wringer, ah?_ ”) (“ _Ha, the only one runnin’ me to tha ground ‘round here is your dumb ass, punk._ ”).

This kind of exhaustion is a completely different animal than Bucky’s ever wrangled before, he decides.

His eyes drift shut as he walks, stone statue feet tripping over rocks and branches and dirt, his grip loosening on the “gun” he holds.

He’s seen enough guns to know what they do, shot enough guns to know how they work, he’s jammed fingers and cotton into the holes that they make, he knows the damage they cause. This machine is not a gun, it’s a coward's tool cleverly disguised as an already less than noble weapon. Its user does not have to see and live with what they’ve done. It’s not a gun, and he refuses to call it one.

Steve’s hand on his shoulder ( _But it’s not Steve’s hand, it is but it’s not, what if it’s not really Steve, what if you’re stillback there, thismust be_ a _no ther_ ha llucin _ationy_ ou’v _e g ot to wake_ u _p -_ ) makes his head jerk upright, his dry eyes peeling stickily open.

“You alright?” Steve asks, and it’s still his eyes that are looking at him, still his face, if a little less pale and a little less pain-pinched, the hollows of his cheeks smoothed out with a healthy layer of fat.

Bucky sighs heavily. “Told you I’m fine the last fifty times, Rogers, drop it.”

Steve’s hand squeezes his shoulder lightly before he lets go. “You just look half-dead, Buck. You keep almost fallin’, and considerin’ that I’m pretty sure i just committed treason to rescue you, if you die on me now I’m gonna be pretty pissed.”

Bucky forces his face into a wry grin (the effort of it makes his face ache) and lets his shoulder bump into Steve’s. “I’m alright, Stevie. Promise.”

Steve smiles at that, and the sourness of the lie curls bitter in his empty stomach.

Tiny, tiny cuts all over the bottoms of his feet. Tiny, tiny cuts all over the palms of his hands, blood oozing into the soles of his boots, blood smearing the barrel of the weapon.

His veins burn. His bone marrow pounds.

 

The next thing he sees is red, red lips. He can’t hear the words passing through her teeth, the curves of the vowels through Steve’s mouth. Bucky says something, a rallying cry. The world warps. Sound presses into his ears but he can’t hear it. The world is as silent as his brain after he makes a headshot.

He curls up in his brain and goes to sleep somewhere. Lets his body take care of itself for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> i quote myself "fuck it man just post it" (tell me what you think though)


End file.
